


The fool is I

by Nixpix



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:18:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nixpix/pseuds/Nixpix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras becomes a wanted man and the word is that the police is looking for him. The Amis convinces him to go in to hiding for a few days until things calm down. Somehow he ends up hiding in Grantaire’s humble apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the fic that I started back in 2013 that I just can't seem to work on continuously - in this household it's all sporadic surges of inspiration or nothing. The firsts four chapters are considerably older than the later chapters - but the first chapter is now updated & the rest will follow. After I've finished updating the first four chapters the story will continue on as normal. Y'all better buckle down for some hardcore pining and soft emotions.

” _Because”_   Enjolras hissed, a slight irritation starting to rise underneath his breath, “there is no need for such _drastic_ measures”. Combeferre gave him a sharp yet brutally understanding glare in response; a rather contradicting combination only ever seen in this young student alone. Balancing the duality between being just scornful enough without being overbearing was a trait he had mastered after a few years being the right-hand man of Enjolras. Combeferre turned to fully face Enjolras before he retaliated with a sigh of annoyance, “I realize that speaking to  _you_ about your own health and safety is about as efficient as- “  
“Speaking to an inanimate object? Pull open a door intended to be pushed? No, no, _I know_ ; remembering something you forgot?” Grantaire cut in, having just arrived with a fresh bottle in hand (and hardly his first), making quite some jolly fun out of Combeferre’s and Enjolras’ dispute.

The dispute was concerning Combeferre’s request that Enjolras went underground for a short period of time. Enjolras had been _reckless_ , to mimic Combeferre’s words, to which Enjolras had scoffed and insisted he’d been “overenthusiastic, at most”. Consequently, be it recklessness or enthusiasm, it had sparked murmurs around the city. Silent and scarcely hopeful whispers carried from person to person under secretive breaths. Whispers grew to rumours of resistance and revolutions, and with it came speculations of who these brave rebels were. Quite unsurprisingly, many were suspecting the seemingly harmless students with the loud opinions. The only one who was truly suspected was Enjolras, and this had Combeferre worried; it had them all worried. They knew it wasn’t unheard of for the police to act on rumours. If things didn’t quiet down there was no saying what might befall their leader in the months to come. To make the rumours die out Combeferre came forth with the suggestion that Enjolras go into hiding. Just until they could meet safely without the looming fear of soldiers bursting through the doors, shredding all their plans to nothingness. This was something Enjolras was reluctant to do, to say the least. Nobody could tell how long the dispute had been going on, but everyone except Enjolras and Combeferre welcomed Grantaire’s crude addition.

“You know nothing of the matter, Grantaire. Remain silent” Enjolras warned, hardly even looking at the ragged man sitting across the table with dark circles under his looping eyes and hair spilling in messy ink curls over his head. “Enlighten me, Apollo.  Is this not the meaning of you? To lighten others' dark and mellow paths?” Grantaire had made it a habit of speaking in riddles only for the sake of seeing Enjolras’ lips thin down to a slim line, his forehead wrinkled with annoyance as his brows knitted together. Another half-hearted grin grew on Grantaire’s lips, but did not reach his eyes, smiling only for the sake of a smile.  
“I have expressed my most sincere wish for Enjolras to find somewhere suitable to remain for just a matter of days” Combeferre started when he realized Enjolras had decided to ignore the man in front of him. “Nobody has space in any case. Where would you have me be?” Enjolras spoke again, casting a haste glance across the table at Grantaire fully ready to scorn the sarcasm from escaping his lips. However, his eyes landed on the other man leaning his head against the table, seemingly having lost interest in the discussion. In response to Enjolras’ statement, a silence hovered over the students in the room. Combeferre paused before adjusting the round spectacles on his nose, as he often did when scrambling for answers. It had not occurred to him that the best living arrangements that either of them had acquired where simple hired rooms. The best was Joly who happened to have two rooms, but the thought of living with Joly made Enjolras head spin in exhaustion before it was even suggested. Combeferre sat down in the chair next to Enjolras one fluid movement, giving off an aspirated sigh in defeat as he slumped.

Then there was a slight movement, and it was as if Enjolras could  _feel_ the smug grin spread over Grantaire’s features the moment before he spoke.

“ _I have a room”_

* * *

 

There had been several cheers from his friends when Grantaire had so delicately offered his home as a hideout back at the Musain. Combeferre had looked genuinely thankful that it made Enjolras feel slightly guilty. Combeferre would never let anyone see how bothered he really was by certain issues until it became apparent in the amount of relief when it was resolved. All of the Amis looked pleased, except Enjolras. Not that he looked  _displeased,_ but rather  _shocked_ , and in a state of rather disbelief.  
“ _You?”_ he had asked, big ocean blue eyes staring straight in to Grantaire’s. Grantaire couldn't help himself but to note that this must have been the first time he had obtained the leaders unfaltering attention. “ _I”_  said Grantaire louder and clearer to try and drown out the actual tremble of his voice as a consequence of Enjolras gaze. At the end of the meeting, the Les Amis had successfully persuaded Enjolras to stay hidden in Grantaire’s home, only for a matter of days.

Grantaire walked in silence ahead of Enjolras, and every other minute the half empty bottle in his hands would be raised to his lips. Enjolras inhaled the fruity smell of red wine that was trailing after Grantaire and noted that wine indeed smells better than it tastes. They walked for about fifteen minutes in complete silence. Grantaire’s only reassurance that his golden leader was still with him was the sound of shoes hitting pavement. A smile spilled over his lips when Grantaire could picture Enjolras’ stride and walking posture without even glancing back. He knew exactly what Enjolras looked like whilst doing the most ordinary of activities. How he would burn when preaching about his undying love for France, pacing up and down the second floor of the Musain, arms flying in heated speeches. Grantaire snapped out of his dream-world and picked up the pace, they still had a few minutes left of walking to do and this trail of thought wasn’t helpful.

Enjolras kept a firm steady gaze ahead, trailing after Grantaire along the narrow streets of Paris. It had occurred to Enjolras that he had no clue of where Grantaire lived, or what he did when he was not around the Les Amis. Of course, there were only a handful of meetings that Grantaire had actually missed;  _somehow_  out of nowhere he would always show up with a fresh bottle close at hand, ready to make loud objections and forcefully make Enjolras prove his point. Until now Enjolras hadn't mused much over the mysteries of Grantaire; such as where he lived or where he came from. He scowled inwardly when taking notice of how he might have judged his character entirely of how he presented himself during the meetings; which was the only time the two ever met. Not that his judgement of the other was negative in its entirety - Grantaire had plenty of qualities worth praising. However, much to his own knowledge, Enjolras had a tendency to focus on only what can, and should, be improved and never what ought to be praised - which didn't just apply to the social structures of society, but to the people around him as well. 

Enjolras stopped dead in his tracks and snapped out of his own dream-world when he almost walked in to Grantaire’s back, who had suddenly came to a halt in front of him. Grantaire quickly looked over his shoulder with a lazy smile as Enjolras took a step back to regain his space. “We’ve arrived” said Grantaire with a slight gesture towards a building to the left. Enjolras turned his head and his eyes ran up and down its worn brown brick walls.  It was as any other rental building in these parts of Paris; horrible by normal standards but good enough for the struggling Parisians. It was a tall building towering over him, and seemingly crocked, as if it was leaning slightly over the pavement. “Home, sweet home” Grantaire sighed and lead the way up the front doorsteps, and of course (much to Grantaire’s relief) Enjolras remained completely and utterly oblivious towards Grantaire’s nervousness.

Grantaire opened the door and took a step to the side, offering the open entry to Enjolras. Enjolras took a few steps in to the building and entered a narrow hallway that you could either go down further in or follow the staircase that rose up just a few steps ahead. “Second floor” said Grantaire from behind him and poked his head through a door with a quick greeting before he fell in to Enjolras trail up the stairs. Enjolras only caught a slight murmur of the response coming from inside the door Grantaire had just slipped away from, but it sounded as an elderly woman with a friendly light tone. "Just the landlady. If I didn't come by she would come looking for me at the apartment -and we wouldn't want that, now would we?" he said with a small laugh when he noticed Enjolras had slowed down to a halt, before urging him to keep walking with a slight gesture of his hand. Not until they were standing right outside Grantaire’s door did Enjolras feel just the tiniest feeling of anxiousness. He was going to see how Grantaire lived. He was going to see a part of this seemingly cynical drunkard that none else of the Amis had seen, for better or for worse. It seemed as Grantaire had thought of that part of the deal as little as Enjolras before that moment, because he was shifting with his keys with trembling nerves. “It’s quite a mess but if you just allow me a second to move some things out of the way—“Grantaire mumbled with a halfhearted chuckle towards the door as he unlocked it.

 _Quite_  the mess doesn’t  _quite_  cut it for the state of that apartment.


	2. The Fool is Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone becomes slightly enamored by a complicated artist.

Enjolras entered Grantaire’s apartment but kept close by the door, just in case Grantaire would change his mind. The room was dark with curtains draped across a hidden window. Grantaire moved across the room and jerked up the window, trying to get fresh air in to the misty apartment. The air was thick, as if the window had never been opened and a strong smell of paint made Enjolras slightly dozy, shifting weight from one side to the other in order not to lose his footing. Grantaire seemed undisturbed by it and seemed immune to the effect of the intense paint. The sudden light from when the sun emerged from under the curtains revealed the room in its totality. Grantaire moved with ease amongst the ocean of objects covering the wooden floor; everything from buckets of paint, half-finished and abandoned canvases to empty bottles of glass splayed across the room.

Enjolras stood leaning against the wall beside the door, watching while Grantaire gathered an armful of items and pushed them aside. “Never said I was tidy” Grantaire scoffed out slightly playfully when catching Enjolras gaze. “I distinctly remember you saying you had _room_ ” Enjolras responded, sounding far less serious than intended. “Ah, yes. Well, I have _a_ room. You’re standing in one. I was not lying, oh fearless leader” Grantaire said with a laugh and pushed away some unfinished artworks away with his foot. Again looking up at Enjolras face he could tell the blond was follow his movements and quickly concluded that Enjolras was probably thinking about the art. “I’m not particularly persistent with the… most ends up as rubbish” he said with a quick motion of the at least dozen abandoned canvases. Most of them are only the results of impulsive but extreme bursts of emotion, particularly when intoxicated, and ended up as smears of colours clashing like blades against each other.

Not until now did Enjolras move away from the wall on slightly wobbly legs, but he seemed to have it under control with the fresh air streaming in to the apartment with rapid pace. He picked up the canvas that just had been the object of abuse from Grantaire’s shoes and looked at it with a stern look. Grantaire shifted uncomfortably, somehow he had though that Enjolras seeing his attempts on art would not bother him, and somehow he had thought that Enjolras opinion wouldn’t matter. Somehow Grantaire was still desperately trying to reject these emotions; and it wasn’t working.“They’re not rubbish. They’re yours; you should love them” Enjolras said, clearly disapproving, but not in the way Grantaire expected. Grantaire wasn’t sure what to answer, for a slight second his absinthe deluded mind almost spoke the truth, that Grantaire hated the paintings _because_ they were his. He remembered when he made each one, remembered each stroke, each bloody emotion. They were simply his soul on a canvas; _who in their right mind would want to stare at their own soul_. “Not that easy Apollo” Grantaire gave a slight shrug and a smirk but Enjolras face did not soften.  
“You’ll be sleeping in there and I here” Grantaire said, quickly escaping the subject at hand. “It is you who live here, I shall sleep on the couch” Enjolras argued giving Grantaire a stern look. “How gallant of you Apollo, though no sacrifices are needed of you, you will sleep in those comforts you are used to; and I in my own. I can count the times I have used that devilish furniture at one hand” Grantaire said with and giving Enjolras a look clearly saying that there would be no discussion about this. Enjolras sought something ells but Grantaire’s triumphant smirk to focus on and moved further down the apartment.

Apart from the vast majority of works left for oblivion, there were some finished pieces propped up against dark corners; one of these caught Enjolras eye. It was a wide canvas, at least double the length across than in height and judging by the state of it, it didn’t seem that old. Enjolras bent and picked it up to give it a closer look and he could hear Grantaire approach from behind him. It didn’t seem like anything very special, but very different from the battle of colours displayed in Grantaire’s other works. This was a beautiful scenery seen from above the treetops; a forest with more shades of green in it than Enjolras’ ever seen before, a clear blue sky and a burning sun gazing down upon a distant mountain chain. “What is this?” He asked, feeling slightly awkward with Grantaire now at his side. “It is a painting, oh fearless leader” Grantaire attempted with an easy smile but only received an annoyed look from Enjolras. “Has it a name?” Enjolras asked next, eyes returning to the painting balancing in his hands. “Proper artists name their works” he added and this made Grantaire smile genuinely. “You seem to have forgotten, I am not a proper anything”. “You’re a proper vexation” Enjolras scoffed with an unintentional lightness. “Truly now Grantaire” Enjolras said with only the smallest amount of commendation. Grantaire contemplated saying that he was unimaginative and had not named it at all, but he had never lied to Enjolras and he would rather keep it that way.  
“The fool is I” he said at last. “Pardon?” Enjolras gave Grantaire a confused look, frown slightly growing and forehead wrinkling in that specific way that made him look well and truly clueless. Grantaire could not help himself from giggling and coughed several times; attempting to make it sound less adoring. “The fool is I” he repeated and he could not look at Enjolras’ expression without smiling when he became increasingly confused. “Why on earth would you name it that?” Enjolras exclaimed giving the painting another look.

Grantaire gave a sigh and moved in closer to Enjolras’ side so their shoulders were brushing, his head was already spinning. “Tell me what you see in the picture. Only the important things, I don’t need the details of my own painting” Grantaire said, knowing how fond Enjolras was of speaking long and well about the smallest and most trivial of things. “It’s just a mountain chain” he said looking strangely at Grantaire who was trying to strangle his own heartbeat. “Mountains it is indeed. But a chain is several mountains linked together, no?” a slight nod from Enjolras affirmed him and Grantaire took another deep breath of air. “How do you know that these are connected?” he continued, gesturing to the gray specks on his canvas. “Grantaire, I’m no artist but I can clearly see that there is more than one mountain, and they are next to each other. So it’s a chain” Enjolras said but with a question hanging in his voice. Grantaire had difficulties getting air down in his lungs and out again without trembling and he would rather not think about how flustered he must look. “There is more than one mountain. And at first glance you’d think that they were located right next to each other. But if you look closer, you’ll notice that they _could_ be miles and miles apart. The perspective makes them appear to be linked because they are so far away”. Enjolras eyes lit up for a split second but then he looked puzzled again. “I understand this. It’s a visual illusion. What does that have to do with its name?” Grantaire shifted slightly, trying not to overthink the way Enjolras almost moved with him as their shoulders slipped apart. “Visual Illusion; the eye is the fool. Eye” Grantaire explained and emphasized by pointing at his eye. Sudden realization struck Enjolras and a smile spread across his face, at least as much as a face of such marble as Enjolras’ could manage. “Eye is the fool and _the fool is I_. _Riddles_ , how very Grantaire” Enjolras said propping the painting on to the wall again. “Paintings are extensions of the one who created them.” Grantaire said smiling because Enjolras knew him well enough to be able to use his name as a description. _How very Grantaire, how very Grantaire, how very Grantaire_. Enjolras voice didn’t stop ringing in his ears until three bottles and a highly efficient smoke later.


	3. Icarus ablaze

Afternoon turned in to night as the hollows of Paris drank greedily the days last rays of sunshine. The remaining rays of day bled out from the horizon, clinging to the Parisian sky, in a haunting orange. Grantaire sat at the corner of a darkened street, most likely intended to be illuminated, but due to lack of oil, no lights where alight. Yet the stars and moon were enough light to spread a ghostly tranquil sense of security on these dark street corners.

Grantaire rested his back against the rough brick wall, and observed the night sky. He knew that by now, Enjolras was probably resting, sleeping soundly and dreaming of fierce revolutions, glorious victories and happy endings. Grantaire had escaped his apartment, fearing that he'd destroy things further with Enjolras. He had tried to sleep for an hour or two, but the conversation of the night made it impossible. It felt as if every word that came out of his mouth somehow pushed Enjolras away, no matter how hard he tried to be... _agreeable_. He _truly_ did try, but he just couldn't do that to Enjolras. He couldn't lie; he couldn't look him in the eye and say that his plan was _bulletproof_ or that it wouldn't get _everyone_ and _everything_ he cares about brutally and absolutely demolished. He did it out of love; all he wanted was to make sure Enjolras was safe. It didn't really matter what he did, he knew who he was. He was a hopeless cynic meant for nothing. Every man can't have a purpose in life. Everyone can't be made for great deeds. He was one of those who lived to even out the numbers between the heroes. Enjolras was his sun. It didn't matter if he closed his eyes, he'd just burn brighter in the dreams. "I need another drink" Grantaire thought and, with no little amount of struggling, got up from the cold Parisian pavement.

Enjolras had entered the room that Grantaire had appointed to him reasonably early in the night. It smelled musky of dust, old paper, acrylic, and with an undermining scent of sweet whine. Initially he walked around the room for several minutes, going from bookshelf to bookshelf. Old books where stacked everywhere. Even though some shelves were hardly full, stacks reaching all the way to Enjolras' hip flooded the floor like pillars among scattered abandoned paintings. A strange new inquisitiveness made him want to bring some of the books and paintings out and discuss them with Grantaire. Instead he sat down on the bed, picking at the sheets. He made a frustrated groan and flopped down, staring up at the ceiling. It felt as if his stomach had caught on fire. An internal raging wildfire was spreading from the pit of his soul, boiling his blood, vaporizing the air in his lungs and every breath he took fed it's greedy flames. This wasn't a new feeling to Enjolras, he had this burning sensation very often. When he spoke in the Musain, when he rallied people in the streets, even when he and Grantaire discussed, but it was different now. He had done nothing of the kind for hours. He had been confined in this tiny living space for half a day and still this feeling was not showing any sign of retaliation.

Hours passed and Enjolras had successfully shuffled around the bed and buried himself in pillows and ragged blankets enough to fall asleep. The warnings from his friends echoed in his dreams. They told him he needs to be careful. Enjolras had never been afraid of such a thing as dying from his cause in his life, but somehow these warnings of danger caused his heart to beat quicker and making his breathing uneven and hitched. The golden locks stuck to his forehead and jaw as he trashed around the bed, breathing shallow and quick breaths. A loud and sudden crash echoed through the apartment and Enjolras body jerked up instinctively in a sitting position. He was breathing heavily and his limbs where shaking slightly as he listened carefully for another sound. _"I could have imagined it. It was probably just Grantaire knocking something over in his sleep"_ he thought and tried to get his heart to stop racing. Then there was another sound of something substantially heavy hitting the ground with a crash, and without a second thought Enjolras was out of bed and rushing for the door. "Be careful". _"It's just for a couple of days, keep your eyes open, Enjolras. We need you with us on this"._ All those words of caution from his friends where cleansed from his mind. His tired and slightly delusional mind could only make one connection at the time. Grantaire _should_ be sleeping in the next room. He was most likely splayed out on the couch with one or two bottles at his side. In other words; a complete sitting duck. In less than a heartbeat Enjolras was out the door and halfway across the sitting room before his mind registered what was happening. He stopped and stared at the scene playing out in front of him, taking a few steps back and steadying his breath, fearing discovery.

Grantaire was there, fully alive and there where no policemen. The source of the disturbing noises was the rough handling of a canvas and several tin-cans of paint. Grantaire had removed his musky green waistcoat, and his white cotton shirt was partly tucked in to the high-waist black trousers and partly floating freely passed his hips. Enjolras had not taken note of how large the shirt was for him until now, as he scrutinized how the shirt loosely embedded him. A lonely candle by his side illuminated his figure in dull orange firelight, making the curves of his side stand out against the soft white of his shirt. He moved his arm rapidly, back and forth over the canvas. It looked like he was attacking it, the brush was bleeding out with color all over Grantaire's arm, soiling the white cotton of his shirt. The attack on the canvas was raw, forceful and somewhat intimidating, and yet Enjolras was entranced by the tender and graceful movement of Grantaire's shoulders. His arms flexing quickly in all directions and his wrists twitching in sharp ends and edges. It was a dance. Grantaire was preforming and it was absolutely stunning. Enjolras could say nothing. He couldn't move. The internal fires had entirely engulfed him. After a minute, or an hour, or several hours, Enjolras couldn't tell anymore, Grantaire's body sank in to a pile on the ground. Breathing heavily and his body somewhat trembling he buried his face in the corners of his arms. Enjolras stared at the final product of Grantaires raging brushstrokes and found that he couldn't look away.

It was the image of a dark haired man and a giant blazing sun. The man's face was hidden in curls and blood and he had large crooked wings fully ablaze.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun climbed up the skies of Paris, showering the gloomy streets with warm morning rays, eliminating the cold of night. Grantaire, against popular belief among his associates, was an early riser. There was just something special about mornings that made the matter of his hungover feel significantly less fatal. It was something in the colours of the shifting sky; how the intense orange blaze of the morning sun shines upon the rooftops of a city he hates to love, or just the tranquility of a city still in slumber.

Grantaire's awakening began with just the slightest of movements, slowly at first and then with such overwhelming intensity; there was simply no denying the new day his presence. He mouthed the lowest of grunts and shuffled his beaten body on to a sitting position. His spine made a painful cracking noise when Grantaire straightened his torso and rolled his shoulders to liberate his body from the staleness caused by sleeping on the floor. He stopped his movements suddenly and looked down to an object which had fallen off him. By his knees was a large white blanket, without a doubt the same one that he had made sure to lurk out of his drawers for the sole purpose to be in his bedroom. With Enjolras. Grantaire gave a deep sigh, and suddenly felt sick to his stomach. Enjolras had found him like this; inanimate and passed out on the floor, drunk as a sailor. He brought up the blanket to his chest and leaned in to its warmth for a minute before he looked up at what stood before him. His face dropped and somehow the nausea reached a new peak. Before him was a large canvas, absolutely savagely ruined with paint, much like the floor underneath it. Grantaire dropped his head and rested it against his knees, the nausea growing from the pit of his stomach crawling up his torso, clawing at his lungs and spinning his head. 

"Why do I continuously _do_ this to myself? It isn't enough that I ache once - I just _have_ to paint the feeling down so I can preserve it and feel _again_ " he mouthed in to the blanket which had started to cool down, losing it's comforting warmth. He pulled himself off the floor and savagely grabbed the painting by its edges which was still wet with paint. He moved across his apartment, trying his best to keep his insides _inside_ as his hangover violently disapproved of movement. He dug around a desk whilst leaning completely on it, not even caring to actually look while looking for something sharp. He gave a grunt and gave up, deciding throwing the piece out as a whole should suffice - as long as it was out of his way he cared very little for the state of it. 

Grantaire started to move towards his front door when a creak caught his ear and flopped his head over his shoulder to look.   
“Where are you going?” a strange and unfamiliar voice slipped from the pink lips of the revolutionary leader who hardly even stood up straight in the door-frame of the bedroom. Grantaire lifted an eyebrow in amusement and some shock at the disheveled appearance of Enjolras. He still looked perfectly angelic, but how his hair sprayed across his shoulders in disarray and his lids looked so heavy practically forced Grantaire to turn back around to allow him full view. Enjolras had often, and often ought to be underlined as very often, made Grantaire’s heart _tremble_ , _clench_ and _ache_ in a million different ways - but now he felt his heart _flutter_ for the very first time. The Enjolras that clung for the support of the door-frame in order to keep his body that remained half in slumber upright wasn’t of marble. He wasn’t a statue. He was Enjolras - and with that realization Grantaire averted his eyes and ran a suddenly nervous hand through his hair with little thought of the paint that still clung to it. It left small streaks of red and yellow paint in some of his dark locks- Grantaire having been accustomed to having paint everywhere made little note of it.  _Enjolras did however._ He made _quite_ a note of it - after he had properly opened his eyes. He caught Grantaire’s eye and somehow they remained there, the air seemed to evaporate in the blink of an eye - or he just simply forgot to breathe. Enjolras rubbed his eyes in attempt to rid himself of the sleep that still clung to him, and if he had just reopened them quick enough he would have caught the small adoring smile on Grantaire’s lips. Naturally he did not. This was the most sorrowful part of the relation between Grantaire and Enjolras - it was one of complete misfortune in both time and circumstance. When one looked upon the other with his heart in his eyes the other seemed to always be otherwise occupied just until it was too late to be caught - and so the circle went round and round.

“Are you-” 

“I am just-”

Both spoke and both fell silent simultaneously. Grantaire flashed a smirk and a bubble of genuine laughter burst from his throat. Enjolras lowered his head and his shoulders shook slightly in soundless laughter. From Enjolras lowered gaze the object in Grantaire’s hands caught his attention and he swiftly looked back up at the other. “Are you leaving with it?” He said and gestured slightly towards the painting. Grantaire almost reacted physically at the curious way Enjolras said _it_ , almost sounding like he could easily have said _her_ or _him_. As if it almost _mattered_ to him. “I am. Actually I was just about to... _uhm_... rid myself of it” Grantaire’s sentence trailed away from him. Why did he hesitate to tell Enjolras what fate this _thing_ awaited? He had thrown out so many like this one without as much as a second thought, but now in front of Enjolras it seemed to weigh heavier in his hands. At those words Enjolras eyes shifted into something protective, and he quickly paced straight up to Grantaire. “Why on earth would you do that for?” he exclaimed, moving the canvas from Grantaire’s hands to his own. They were both surprised over this reaction. Enjolras reasoned with himself however; he had seen this piece be made - he had seen the performance. It somehow became _dear_ to him - feeling it not deserving the rough handling of Grantaire the morning after. Grantaire however was clueless.

They were close now. Why had he come so close? Grantaire wanted to move back - to retreat far away - but he remained where he stood. He shifted the weight of him from one foot to the other. "It's... complicated" he mumbled under his breath, avoiding the others blue gaze. "It is?" now the normal Enjolras was slowly waking from slumber and he came with questions that he demanded answers for. "I hardly believe I could explain it to you" Grantaire attempted escape and failed, because now he was the solemn target for Enjolras' complete attention. "Why is that?" Grantaire would have given him a smart and instant reply hadn't it been for the way Enjolras' head angled slightly at the question, and the fact that standing this close was having the same effect on him as a bottle. This isn't a very positive thing at all - because when Grantaire is feeling this way, he always does have trouble with keeping the truth locked behind his teeth. 

"Because we are not exactly friends?" 

 


	5. Chapter 5

There is tension strung between them like the cord of an instrument that’s about to break. Conversation is slow and words come out quiet and hushed, for some reason both men fear hearing their own words. Grantaire did not know if he should flee or remain here. He had let those words out of their cage and now he could never put them back. Grantaire could hardly believe the words that fell from his lips. There came no reply however - and if Grantaire could only have looked up and gazed upon the man who stood there, a lot of future pain could have been avoided. Blue eyes seemed to have become lost and confused in an instant. The flush of his cheeks deepened with some strange mixture between frustration and desperation. He wanted to correct him - naturally they were friends, but when he compared his relationship with Grantaire with the other Amis, and so he realized the origins of the other’s confusion. There were not the same. 

“We are not, are we Apollo? I am not the same to you as the rest” Grantaire said to underline his point, there was no point in hiding now – he was going to see it done. He needed an answer; but he desperately wanted Enjolras to remain silent so that he could continue living in this state of limbo. To continue living in his own head, making believe that he knew what Enjolras felt. Enjolras was fuming with  _something._ He felt angry at both Grantaire for seeming honest in his remarks, that he actually believe them not to be friends, and in himself for not finding the words to correct him. They had known each other for years. They were constantly in each others presence – but still his mind was in turmoil looking for a way to express his thoughts, but failing. He gave an aspirated sigh and averted his eyes from the slumped form of Grantaire for the first time in several moments. 

“No. They are my friends because, ultimately, they agree with me. It is human that I would befriend people who I share views and ideas with“ he began in a seemingly controlled frenzy. Grantaire could have given the world to whoever could just interrupt where this conversation was going and erase it from ever taking place. Enjolras posture was perfectly balanced and his shoulders completely squared, but he had fallen into an inner turmoil that he had never encountered before. He was at a loss for words.  

“You are something different. I’m not sure what you are” he continued quite breathlessly. Grantaire wanted time to stop moving, or at the very least abandon him here and carry on without him. He did not wish to hear Enjolras reason back and forth on why he and Grantaire were not friends - the mere fact that they were not was enough for Grantaire’s heart to break. 

“My friends agree with me, they agree with our cause and they remain consistent in their struggle to see it done - they discuss with me but they _do not test me_. Grantaire, you drink and gamble, you are cynical and pessimistic and _of that_ I disapprove - but I do not disapprove of you” the picture started to become clearer for Enjolras, and before he could think better of it he allowed it to lift his spirits and his heart. It did not matter if Grantaire did not think of them as friends, because to Enjolras they were not - it was something else. 

“What grand flattery Apollo. Of me, you do not disapprove - merely everything that I am” Grantaire's voice had adopted a feign sense of ease, the same dark voice that often came out at the end of their disputes. The voice that indicated that he found himself short on words he could bring himself to say aloud, and took refuge in _how_ he said the words he _could_ manage. It meant he was being defeated, but this once Enjolras had not been trying to defeat him. He had been trying to reach out to him. In the time it took Enjolras to respond Grataire had moved towards the couch and dropped into it, quickly followed by the golden leader who sat down beside him.

“No” Enjolras began, his torso shifting sideways so he could face Grantaire, but the other did not reciprocate and refused to give Enjolras so much as a glance. Enjolras was faced with the full view of Grantaire, who remained defiant, and he felt he had no idea how to express what he wanted to say. It was so easy to be angry with this man. It was so easy to cast a comment upon him about his drinking or his questionable conduct, so why was it not equally easy to say the opposite? He shifted in his seat, suddenly being very aware of how Grantaire's hands rested on his knees only a breath away from his own. Enjolras cleared his throat and proceed after having torn his eyes from the callused hand back to the face before him. His gaze dropped quickly however when Grantaire moved ever so slightly and the shape of his shoulder stood out beneath the thin white fabric, as it had done the other night. It caught the blondes attention instantly and brought the scene back from his memory. It would not prevent him from continuing speaking however and thus he spoke again. “Those things are not everything you are. You are more” Grantaire felt the confusion consume him in a whirlwind of questions and doubts, as these were natural for Grantaire. He turned to face Enjolras - thinking he knew exactly what to expect. As he had predicted the stride of the fearless leader before, he could predict the scornful frown upon his blond brows now. But as he looked up upon Enjolras he was faced with a downcast gaze, blue eyes hidden beneath delicate eyelashes that gleamed in golden rays reflected from the sun. His face was no longer the marble stoic frown he was used to – it was not Apollo before him. He seemed understanding, comforting, and completely honest – he was Enjolras, and only the look of him healed his broken heart all on its own.

“You are more than you give yourself credit for, Grantaire. You are more than I have given you credit for”  

Grantaire felt hopeless. He felt this way every time Enjolras gave him hope. He did not ask for it, all he asked was for Enjolras to reject him and extinguish this agony he felt every time they met. The agony of something that might be – had he just been a different man. Grantaire closed his eyes and let his heavy head fall into his hands as his elbows rested on his thighs. He bit down hard on his lips and noted the clear lack of wine on them. He needed to drink this anguish away, and soon. He was not more than he was – he was Grantaire the drunken cynical menace that had set roots in the Musain so that he might see what light looked like – what dreams of a better future looked like. He had never intended to fall this desperately in love with it.

Suddenly Grantaire felt the feather light touch of another's hand by his ear. He stopped breathing, the air having completely frozen in his lungs at Enjolras' sudden touch. Enjolras ran his fingers delicately over the black curls that had been smeared with yellow and red paint, having succumbed to the sudden urge to wipe it back to black. Grantaire was at a loss. His mind seemed to surrender, and completely shut down all defenses and doubts. Enjolras hardly knew how to carry on from the point of which Grantaire’s shoulders seemed to relax and his frame leaned ever so slightly into Enjolras’ touch.

“I admit that I do not know what to say now” Enjolras spoke after several moments of silence. “Then have you ever tried not saying anything at all, Enjolras?” Grantaire hummed with his head still in his hands, but now a small smile was playing on his hidden lips. Enjolras did not respond, but secretly he allowed his mind to repeat the first time Grantaire had called him by is name and not some divinity.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright here’s chapter 7. You may, if you wish, read until chapter 6 and consider that the end (even though that’s a quite lamo ending but hey you do you). I, on the other hand, have had a love-hate relationship with this fic for about three years now and I don’t think I’m ready to let it en that easy. Also, I have a growing affection for italics so if you're not into that- then beware. Good reading.

There had not gone five hours straight without something unexpected occurring since Enjolras entered the humble home of the local drunken cynic. One would think that after so much had happened between them, Grantaire would get less surprised every time he caught Enjolras pausing his talkative lips to fall into a long unblinking gaze when he thought the other wasn’t paying attention - and Enjolras to have learned that Grantaire was always paying attention. Enjolras allowed himself to, for once, marvel at the gentle curve of Grantaire’s lips when he smiled without _acidity_ and the atmosphere around them had turned considerably more comfortable. Enjolras had lost all concept of time as the both men sat on Grantaire’s old and torn sofa - surrounded by an ocean where plenty of trinkets, abandoned canvases, and also a surprising amount of books lay scattered. The pair had fallen into conversation on one of the many titles that had been positioned by Enjolras’ feet, stabled into tall pillars rising from the floor. _Again_ Enjolras found himself surprised - not that Grantaire had _not_ given the air of an intellectual (actually he had often made Enjolras curious with where all that knowledge came from when Grantaire time and time again had brought up historic figures, battles and schools of thought that were properly uncharacteristic for any ordinary drunkard) but the ecstasy Grantaire assumed when he spoke of literature, art and poetry managed to genuinely surprise Enjolras. It was not an outright passion - but somehow the tone of his voice reflected that of a secret lover, trying not to let the emotions show. Watching him idly as he spoke of the volume that rested in Grantaire’s hands, Enjolras remembered when Grantaire once had told him that _‘no man is born a cynic dearest Apollo; you will know that very well one day’._ Enjolras’ gaze softened when he realized what was appearing before him - it was the remains of Grantaire’s passion. The passion that had once burned _fiercely_ \- but as any flame does, had flickered with the harsh wind and eventually left nothing but dreams clouded in smoke and ash.

“That’s _quite_ enough of that, I believe” Grantaire suddenly spoke after having shifted under Enjolras’ steady gaze - and _not_ for the first time since they sat down. Grantaire moved to place the leather-bound book back down when he spotted a clash of red and yellow in the corner of his eye, and when he turned around it became apparent to him that Enjolras was indeed still holding the painting he had previously saved from impending doom. Enjolras dropped his gaze and it too fell upon the piece that he still safeguarded in his left hand. Grantaire felt increasingly uncomfortable with Enjolras being anywhere _near_ the painting - just the mere thought of Enjolras figuring out the _obvious_ meaning behind it sent his forgotten nausea spinning like a whirlpool in his stomach. _Honestly_ , it was not very discreet. _A dark figure with dark curls and a red blazing sun?_ Enjolras might as well have found one of the many portraits of himself Grantaire had produced over the years and it would perhaps have been _easier_ to explain without giving it all away. _However_ , whether or not Enjolras had come to the correct _(and painstakingly obvious)_ conclusion or not, he gave no appearance what so ever. He remained completely unreadable and the fact remained a mystery. This just kept Grantaire strung like a shoplifter bowing to law enforcement - ever so careful not to let all his little secrets spill out of his pockets.

Not that the current atmosphere was _hard_ to read as strained _(at best),_ and he _really_ should not have been as startled as he was, but when Enjolras suddenly spoke again to rid them the pressure of silence Grantaire still felt his heart jump in fright. “Is this all we shall be doing all day long? _Will I be able to attend my meetings?_ ” Enjolras questioned, the later question spoken in a rather haste - as if he had not thought of it before. Grantaire looked up and was met with large round blue eyes - staring with _honest_ question. Grantaire suddenly felt relieved to his very bones - the strained atmosphere vanished in seconds for that look on Enjolras’ stern features sent him into a frenzy of laughter. Enjolras first looked confused, then there was the _faintest_ of _traces_ that could _possibly_ have been _interpreted_ as a smile, before his lips turned into a thin line in a characteristic frown. “What?” he practically hissed as to not be tempted to fall into Grantaire’s roaring laughter. “Are you aware of the definition of hiding, my leader?” Grantaire wheezed and clutched at his chest in order to persuade his lungs to function as lungs again. Now Enjolras looked appalled - _offended_ even. “Excuse me, sir. I am  not hiding” he continued in his hissed tone, but now of a more stern kind. “Oh yes, indeed you are. You are _avoiding detection_ \- and you are therefor hiding” Grantaire managed to speak - but do not misinterpret this as that he had stopped laughing. Enjolras made a disapproving sound deep down in his throat - but did not disagree. He remained silent until Grantaire fell back against the soft back of the sofa as to regain his strength. _So what then? I do nothing at all? For days?_ Enjolras continued his musings from before. _I could not do nothing. They would not go as far as to render me useless - surely dropping off the face of Paris would induce suspicion?_ “You have got a fair point, my Captain” Enjolras heard Grantaire hum from beside him and did not realize until that point that everything he had thought was actually spoken. He half coughed and squared his shoulders - and did his very best to seem as if everything that had been said was _entirely_ intentional. Enjolras’ gaze was torn from the spot he had been focusing on when Grantaire stirred beside him and eventually rose from the sofa. Enjolras snapped his eyes away when Grantaire turned to face the other, after having taken three or four strides across the room. “So what then?” Enjolras repeated and managed to throw a chaste glance in Grantaire’s direction. The other stood leaning on table which’s surface was hopelessly cluttered in documents, books, and different art supplies. It was still early in the morning, and the sun had yet to climb much higher than just above the window, casting the room in a warm orange light. Enjolras cast his gaze to the window and gave a feigned grimace of thoughtfulness when he realized Grantaire had actually been speaking but all Enjolras could hear was his own voice in his head asking _why on earth this man has not put his waistcoat back on - or invested in a shirt that perhaps is not barely short of translucent._

He slowly realized that he could not escape that easy because Grantaire remained silent and was observing Enjolras with an expectant gaze. _Damn_ , Enjolras thought to himself, _he must have asked me a question._ Enjolras coughed a little and straightened his spine, trying to grasp at straws of which to throw back at Grantaire. However before he could say anything, Grantaire spoke again. “I just figured you wouldn’t be up for it. Don’t think you would… _approve_ ” Grantaire spoke with no little use of excessive hand movements and gestures - and Enjolras _really_ wished he wouldn’t because whenever he lifts his arms he can see the sides of his torso through his shirt and, _against popular belief_ , Enjolras can _indeed_ experience distraction.  

“As long as I show my face it should suffice” Enjolras said curtly, joining Grantaire by the table. He wanted time to pause just for _this_ moment, simply so he could gloat in the grimace of surprise on Grantaire’s face. It had not gone unnoticed by Enjolras that Grantaire, for the most part, had him all figured out. Nothing Enjolras seemed to do would make those dense and dark eyebrows lift and mouth fall agape in surprise - but this seemed to have done the trick. “You are certain you wish to join me?” Grantaire scoffed in utter disbelief, which just fueled Enjolras determination to do whatever it was that Grantaire thought so majorly impossible. “Yes. _Naturally_ ” Enjolras nodded twice before he spoke again. “You are not getting drunk out of your wits, are you? Because I do still disapprove of that” Enjolras corrected himself quickly - rather facing embarrassment for not having payed attention earlier than to have agreed to watching Grantaire drink himself into stupor. “No, dear Captain, I will indeed refrain as best I can. When you are looking, that is” Grantaire smirked and with a strange, but not entirely unfamiliar, bravery shining in his eyes that steadily held Enjolras’. “When do we leave?” Enjolras asked, picking at the corner of an old parchment that lay abandoned on the table surface.  Grantaire tried not to stare all _too_ _intently_ at the delicate fall of Enjolras’ golden strands when he moved, nor _too apparent_ at how graceful his fingers looked as they flipped through the parchments.

 “Little need for such haste, Apollo. Fighting doesn’t start until sunset” 


	7. Chapter 7

This was certainly not what Enjolras had _ever_ had in mind. The room was a sharp contrast to the crisp chill that enclosed Paris after dark, being brightly lit and warm to a fault. Grantaire seemed at home however. The instant he walked through those doors there had been a constant roar of a multitude of nicknames, all making Grantaire whirl and shout greetings left and right. Enjolras followed in the wake of Grantaire, catching more than a few glances. He became suddenly very aware his stiff posture and tidy overcoat. Enjolras felt lightheaded as a consequence of the booming noises, thick warm air, and smell of spilled wine invaded his senses. Grantaire slowed his stride to a halt as he reached the bar and looked over his shoulder towards Enjolras. His dark curls bounced slightly at the whirling motion, half his face illuminated brightly by the light hanging directly over the bar, making the cuts and dents gracing his skin stand out. Enjolras tried not to ponder over why the sight of Grantaire looking over his shoulder made the same impact as walking into the crisp cold night. He felt as he should say something. Before he could scavenge his mind for something decently put together to say however, Grantaire shot him his trademark smirk and turned back around. Enjolras shut his mouth quickly, feeling his ears heat at the fact that it had been open. _It must be this place. I can’t even hear myself think._ He thought as a silent remark for himself. Suddenly his knees caved violently as pressure forced down upon his shoulders from behind. **_“ENJOLRAS!”_ ** a roaring voice boomed from behind him, and he knew who it belonged to well before he managed to turn around and come face to face with Bahorel. He gave a genuine smile at the sight of his friend. “You could have simply _tapped_ my shoulder, Bahorel” Enjolras said through a fond smile as he rolled his shoulders. Bahorel laughed his rich and booming laughter before enclosing Enjolras’ smaller frame; bringing one of his arms around Enjolras’ shoulders to accompany him towards the bar. “I was surprised to see you here, that’s all” Bahorel stood just over a head taller than Enjolras, which made him perfect for swinging his arm over his shoulders – which he frequently did. Enjolras complied _most_ of the time – because, against popular belief, Enjolras was quite fond of having his friends close. He didn’t judge the misconception however; he was aware of his rather stoic and sometimes cold appearance – he didn’t particularly _look_ like someone who liked a friendly arm over his shoulders every now and again.

“Did ‘Taire come with you? Where is that _little_ -“ Enjolras saw Grantaire standing by the bar, just receiving a tall glass of… whatever hellish brew it was he thirsted for that evening when he heard a woman’s voice call out Grantaire’s name, even stopping Bahorel for finishing his sentence. Grantaire lifted her up and hoisted the woman around him by the waist as if she weighed no more than the bottle of wine she held, all while laughing a cheerful laugh. “ _Careful_ , ‘Taire! Wouldn’t want you to toss Paris best barmaid to the moon by accident!” Bahorel was laughing and Enjolras felt the rumble of the sound in his chest as they approached with faster steps – or in Bahorels case, just larger steps. “Would it _honestly_ be by accident, though?” the woman clapped back as her feet again met the old worn wooden floor.

Enjolras had no idea Grantaire was that strong – but suddenly images from the other night reminded Enjolras of the muscles that embellished Grantaire’s back under his just short of transparent shirt. With that _all too sudden_ reminder Enjolras felt like stopping dead in his tracks, but Bahorel was on a one-way track straight for Grantaire – and Enjolras got pulled along merrily by the arm around his shoulders. As if Bahorel had felt the way Enjolras tensed up – _and to be entirely honest_ , how would he have missed it with their sides pressed together – he gave Enjolras’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze before releasing him with a friendly pat on the back. “Look who I found! Our _grand leader_ has made an appearance at the place of the wicked and doomed, at last!” Bahorel boomed and Grantaire’s laugh danced passed his lips. “He is here to turn us all to the pathway of the Enlightened, _for certain_!” Bahorel continued and Enjolras felt a little more at ease. Obviously Bahorel mistook Enjolras stoic freeze back there as him simply _feeling out of place_ – not that that was _all_ wrong, but at least Bahorel wasn’t suspecting Enjolras was revisiting scenes played out that night in his mind like an awestruck hero in some novel. “Have you met Enjolras before?” Bahorel asked the woman with Grantaire’s hand still on her shoulder. “Seen ‘ _im_ about, yea. Never been acquainted, though” she answered; her attention suddenly on Enjolras, _and Grantaire’s hand still on her shoulder._  Enjolras took to speaking rather quickly instead of musing the alternatives why he was so overly aware of Grantaire's hand on her shoulder. “That ought to be rectified. I am Enjolras, glad to make you acquaintance…” Enjolras bowed ever so slightly as his voice died out insinuating her to give him her name. “Eponine” she answered curtly but not without politeness. Eponine shot a quick look to Grantaire at her side who refused to meet her gaze, knowing _full well_ that she would mock him over this. He always knew he relied on her too much; she knew too many of his secrets. He did give a quick mental prayer though that she didn’t spot the adoring smile he couldn’t conceal when some of Enjolras’ golden locks fell forward as he had bowed. She was in no need of extra material of which to mock him with. “I should get back to work. Nice to at last make your acquaintance, _Captain_ ” and with that she swirled back into the masses of which she had emerged. Grantaire froze and turned to see Enjolras’ reaction. It should be known that only Grantaire ever called Enjolras ‘ _captain’_ ; given that Eponine _just_ called him just that, Grantaire figured Enjolras would with ease put one and one together and wonder _why_ _Grantaire talks about him with people he isn’t acquainted with_. However Enjolras didn't seem to bat an eye, and Bahorel soon dragged both of them away to the far side of the room to take their place at Grantaire’s usual table by the pit.

“What… is the _pit_. Exactly?” Enjolras asked after a while. Grantaire and Bahorel kept bringing it up casually without much explanation, and now he was starting to think they assumed he had _any clue_ what they were talking about. “ _The Pit_ my friend…” Bahorel began, and leaned slightly towards Enjolras who sat to his right. “Is where people go to get _beat up_ by our good mate here” he added with a chuckle and a curt nod towards Grantaire across the table. “And _pay ‘im_ to do it, too! I tell you it’s a _magnificent_ spectacle to behold!” Enjolras attempted and failed to conceal his confusion and Grantaire looked almost bashful. “It’s just a _boxing_ ring” Grantaire said with a small smile, knowing that Enjolras disapproved. “ _Right_ … you did say fighting didn’t start until tonight” Enjolras said as if speaking to himself rather than anybody else, and Grantaire merely shrugged in response. Bahorel suddenly gave a shout before pushing himself out of his chair. “I just saw Feuilly -- _that bastard still owes me a drink from last week_ ” he spoke in a frenzy and didn’t linger to hear either Enjolras or Grantaire’s response. The moments right after his sudden disappearance were shrouded in silence. Enjolras couldn’t think of a single decent thing to say – and Grantaire thought _too damn many_ all at once. Enjolras wasn’t accustomed to this. _He was accustomed to the Musain_. Not that the Musain wasn’t crowded – it was just different. It was like a second home by now. This place was making him lightheaded and it felt as if his cheeks and ears were on fire. He didn’t make the parallel between the _waves of heat_ washing over him and the times he would catch _Grantaire’s gaze._ No. It was _definitely_ the place. All while Grantaire had problems all of his own. Enjolras looked so _different_ here. The way his face flushed was like an entirely new and beautiful sight that Grantaire just couldn’t refrain from outright _staring_ at. It brought him right back to this morning when he had seen Enjolras in the wake of morning for the first time, and it just reminded him how much _more_ there was of Enjolras than he often let on. Though, he looked uncomfortable. He was shifting in his seat, and whenever their eyes met it was as if _something_ in his eyes shifted in discomfort as well. Grantaire wanted to stay here for a great deal longer; just sit here in silence and marvel at the golden leader, but with a heavy sigh he came to the conclusion that he couldn’t. He couldn’t stand to see Enjolras shift around like that. He had _invited_ him there, not _coerced_ him; and he had no intention of forcing him to stay either. Grantaire leaned over the table and caught Enjolras attention; there was the _slightest_ of moments were Grantaire couldn’t help himself but to smile, looking up at Enjolras’ flushed face, before he cleared his throat and tried to speak. “You want to get some fresh air?” Enjolras simply nodded curtly, trying to pry his gaze from how oddly radiant Grantaire’s sunset coloured skin appeared in the dim light, and _why on earth did he forget to speak –_ all he did was nod.

Well outside Enjolras was met with the most blissful chill he had ever encountered. It felt ice cold against his cheeks and he gave a deep sigh of relief. “You seemed a bit warm in there” Grantaire admitted with a chuckle, standing only a short step away from Enjolras. “Ah, come now, don’t _fret_ Captain. It’s an _acquired_ taste – that place” he added after his eyes met Enjolras’ and noticed the slight worry in them. _Captain_ , Enjolras thought and remembered the double take Grantaire seemed to ~~fortunately~~ have missed when Eponine spoke those very words. The thought was _quickly_ put out of his mind however, because _now_ he would have to face the fact that the heat chased after him. Even _here_ , in the chill of the night, the warmth spread through him and made his ears burn with a passion. Enjolras cleared his throat and straightened his back, as if good posture was going to do _anything_. “ _Eventually_ you’ll acquire good taste, and then it’ll suit you just fine” Grantaire finished with a trademark smirk and Enjolras couldn't hold the burst of laughter in his chest.

Enjolras can’t remember the exact moment it came clear to him that Grantaire _wasn't_ arrogant; as he first had assumed. Something to note of Grantaire is that, in all respects, he seems to be quite _fond_ of himself. Everything from the confident smirk to his unexpected charms that seemed to swoop _any target_ of it onto his lap _radiated_ with a sense of self confidence. At first it was generally mistaken for arrogance, but gradually Enjolras seemed to see the depth of it. The air of confidence was _obvious_ , but it was a tentative thing – never lasting. Grantaire could have been booming with laughter and have sweet melodies on his lips during the evening, and when Enjolras prepared to leave the Musain at night he would see a slumped figure by the window – sighing by a bottle. Always alone. He could easily join the rest, but never did. He seemed the sort that belonged in a crowd boiling with restless young hearts and laughter, but whenever nobody payed attention, he seemed the complete opposite. For some time now Enjolras has mused the thought that perhaps he brings out the worst in the other – for he only seems at his worst when he’s alone with Enjolras. He had seemed alright tonight though. More than alright. He had been more or less radiant all through the evening - and Enjolras didn't know how to act as if he didn't just blatantly stare at Grantaire for _far too long_ without saying a word; so he cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair in a desperate attempt to pass of as indifferent and _completely_ unaffected. 

Grantaire made a little confused noise as he took half a step closer – bring them close enough for the slight difference in height to become apparent as Grantaire looked up ever so slightly at Enjolras. “What?” Enjolras voice sounded by far more controlled than he would have thought – given that he felt as if he was standing in an actual fire. Grantaire said nothing but brought up the back of his hand and rested it against the side of Enjolras face. Enjolras reaction was _beyond_ involuntary; as he immediately fluttered his eyes closed as his cheek relished in the ice cold chill of Grantaire’s calloused hand. Grantaire wasn’t _screaming_ internally; _shrieking_ is more the correct term. With a very heavy breath he spoke against the pressure weighing down on his chest. “You’re really warm” it was more hushed than he had intended _by far_ , but Enjolras didn't seem bothered at all - quite the contrary. “You’re cold” he simply replied in his normal curt mannerism, and Grantaire wished he liked Enjolras a _little less_ so he could think straight when they were this close. But alas, he _didn’t_ and he _couldn’t_. “I- _I meant_ \- I meant it feels as if you are _feverish_ ” Grantaire tried his best to speak coherently but Enjolras leaning into his hand made it _exceedingly_ difficult to do anything except stare. “I am perfectly fine. _Just warm_ ” Enjolras spoke again with the ghost of a sigh on his lips – _and now Grantaire was looking at his lips and the whole scene was escalating_. Grantaire needed to get away. Get away and drink himself to a stupor and maybe forget about how delicate Enjolras looks up close when his eyes are shut. Enjolras gave a last sigh of relief before opening his eyes again, and was faced with Grantaire's gleaming eyes with lids fluttering tentatively; whereof he became _overly aware_ of two things. 1) he had _really_ just done that, and 2) Grantaire was standing very close. Enjolras wasn’t stupid. Neither was he _overly_ stubborn or pig-headed; it took some time but one and one became two. Grantaire was affecting him - _really_ affecting him. The heat was unbearable. The fire in the pit of his stomach from earlier was back with a vengeance and he had no idea what to do about it.


End file.
